


Haunt

by Shadow_Ember



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Emotional Hurt, F/M, Hurt John Watson, Nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-10
Updated: 2015-02-14
Packaged: 2018-03-06 23:14:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3151910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadow_Ember/pseuds/Shadow_Ember
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson has dealt with many struggles in his lifetime. With a sociopath for a best friend and a former assassin for a wife, John copes as well as he can, but his memories and emotions only serve to haunt him.</p>
<p>Or the snapshots of John's life where he has been emotionally distraught by something. Poor little army doctor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The War

**Author's Note:**

> I was not sure if this should be rated teen, but because of slightly more mentions of violence in this fic, I decided to be safe. The tags, however, are subject to change in the future.

     John is consumed by it. Every waking moment there is a reminder, from the suddenness of the phone ringing, to the sunlight bouncing off the London sidewalk, to the steady ache of his traitorous body.

     Some days he can ignore the external triggers. The honk of cars will sound normal, and not like the jarring orchestra of gunshots. Strangers will remain strangers, and his inbred cautiousness does not expect that each character he encounters on the streets is hostile.

     Other days, the blinding sand and choking heat of that other world refuse to be filtered from his mind. The memories mingle with reality. On these days, John refuses to go outside, for fear of harming an innocent person if his PTSD were to act up. He shuts himself in his confined apartment, where he sits alone. His therapist suggested writing a blog, especially on these days, to soothe his scarred subconscious. John has tried, but the words never come. Apparently, his mind believes what plagues him is private.

     Even then, when he is away from other people and potential triggers, his body constantly reminds him. His leg twinges with every step, and John hates how he has become reliant on a cane. The freedom he had before was gone, and now he was essentially handicapped.

     And the bullet wound in his shoulder, the accursed thing that landed him back in the menial life of London was all to blame. He still did not have full use of the muscle, and it was constantly tense, as if he were in desperate need of a chiropractor.

     Night was the time John came closest to the world he so missed. Sleep was forever plagued with the memories: screaming men, gunshots in the air, and red blood spilled across the golden sand. However, if John were to be completely honest, ‘plagued’ would not be the right word.

     In his dreams, he could feel everything again. The chaos was his home, and his blood sung in unison with the sickly song of war. The physical strain of the situation could be felt in his muscles, while they worked, and John could feel freedom again.

     His therapist said he had post traumatic stress disorder. When John woke up in the middle of the night from his ‘nightmares’, heart pounding and breath racing, John disagreed. For the brief moment when dreams and reality melded, John did not feel fear. He was back in the jaws of death, where chance decides how long you live, and the moments he was granted became the ones he felt most alive in.

     Consciousness would seep in, and chase the dreams away after that brief moment of existential clarity. Reality returns, and John would wonder what he was doing back in London, in a small apartment, without a job, and no friends or close family.

     John wished to be back where he belonged, so that he may feel the blood pumping strongly in his veins again. He did not know if that would ever come. And only by chance on a fateful day, Sherlock Holmes offered John what he needed most: excitement. Very soon, his new flatmate became his world, and his life just as quickly collapsed around him.


	2. The Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The memories of the Fall plague John, and he can not escape from them. It takes someone unexpected to pull him back together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers for season 2, episode 1: The Reichenbach Fall and onwards
> 
> I do not own Sherlock(BBC) or any of its characters, no matter how much I may wish otherwise.

     The storm was rising, churning, and threatening. Dark waves formed and bashed at John’s heart, consuming him. John clung weakly to his tumbler of scotch, fighting vainly against the monsoon. Already, the salty drops were falling to stain his favorite jumper.

     John choked on his own voice. It threatened to tumble hoarsely into the silent flat, saturated with the grievances of the heart. Ragged breaths already escaped him, and he sounded more like an old man than one in the middle of his life. In front of his burning eyes, a mirage smiled at him slyly, dark curls tumbling into its face. Rivulets of red started beneath the locks, glistening as they dripped down pale skin. Long, nimble fingers were clasped under its chin, and the image flopped onto the small couch in the flat. Blue satin splayed out across the plain furniture, as the figure assumed a childlike pose.

     John could not help his raw exclamation, “Stop it!” He rubbed his eyes, desperately trying to rid himself of the image, “Why must you haunt me so?”

     When he looked up, the mirage merely smiled mischievously at him. “Why is it a game to you?” John shouted. The figure rolled its eyes, and he chucked his empty glass at it. With a wink, the dream disappeared before it could come to harm by the flying object.

     The resounding shatter returned John from the abyss. He blinked furiously, jarred by the loud noise, to see the nightmare had disappeared. The smirk was gone, and the stark contrast of lively blood against dead skin was gone. John exhaled quickly, diaphragm quaking with hysterical, mirthless laughter.

     His hands clenched, and John almost wished he still had his tumbler to hold. He sympathized with the shattered fractures strewn across the ground. After several moments of petrified silence, John slowly released his grip. The white palms of his hands were peppered with small crescents from his nails. If he had pressed much harder, crimson would have bloomed upon them.

     A strange, pitiful noise, escaped John. The appearance of his hands, a creamy pale, were covered by another pair that were decorated with the blood he had imagined upon his own. John did not dare look up at the mirage. A deep rumble made him flinch, “I’m a fake.”

     John sniffed, “No, no, you’re not…”

     “No one could be that clever,” the figure retorted harshly. John tore his hands away and buried his face in them. His voice broke, “No! I believe in you… I will always believe in you!”

     A sad chuckle escaped the being. “Goodbye, John.” The presence of the figure moved away, taking its suffocating aura with it. Almost alarmed by its sudden disappearance, John looked up.

     The figure lay strewn across the glass-stricken floor of the flat. Its features were slack, but there was a faint glimmer of pain remaining on them. Scarlet blood ran everywhere, creating gruesome cracks in porcelain skin. One hand lay outstretched, reaching helplessly towards him.

     John screamed.

     Before he knew it, his cell phone was clasped in his shaking hands. The dial tone was ringing, and John was barely aware of who he called. All he knew was that the figure was still staring at him. A smile had stretched across its lips.

     “Hello?” A sleep-filled voice drifted out of the phone, “John, its one o’clock in the morning. Look if you didn’t like our last date or something just-”

     “Mary?” John’s voice wobbled far much more than he had wished.

     Her change in demeanor was immediate, “Oh god, John what is it?” Her voice was tender, far more than it should have been for being rudely awoken in the middle of the night, let alone by a man she had only been on a few dates with.

     “I…he…” he glanced back at the figure, only to find it had disappeared into the night. He felt his throat closing up, “I can’t. Not now.”

     He sniffed loudly. Surely, Mary could tell he was crying. She would never want to go out with him after this. He was stupid! Of all people, why call her?

     “If you don’t want to talk about it, I can talk,” Mary offered. John was still. She had not hung up on him yet. His mind moved slowly in his stew of emotions and liquor. After a tense silence, he agreed.

     “Okay. Did you know, this morning this terrible git walked into me, and trust me, he was truly terrible. He was short and mean, with a nasally voice. And then…” John listened to her soft voice as she prattled on about her day. It was incredibly, boringly normal, but he was riveted.

     It would only occur to him the next morning, after he had somewhat recovered from a vicious hangover, that he had fallen asleep to her soothing voice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and comments are greatly appreciated!


	3. The Wound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Sherlock is shot, it brings back unpleasant memories all over again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well this chapter refused to comply with my vision for it. With it being almost a week after I would have liked to post it, I figured I would give in and just upload it. I hope it is up to par for you readers!

     “Oh god, oh god,” John whispered frantically, “No, please.” He cradled the lanky body closer, feeling absolutely sickened. Bile threatened to rise in his throat at the sight of too pale limbs and vibrant life-blood.

     Sherlock’s body was, all at once, limp and rigid. His face and eyes were slack, but his body curled in on itself, frozen as a statue. Shock, John’s medical history told him. Minute trembling was present all over his friend’s body. John’s hands mirrored his quivering as he fumbled to dial the ambulance.

     Mycroft said he was addicted to adrenaline at their first meeting years ago. He had deduced it from both his medical records and the lack of shaking in his hand. He had tried to deny it, but the feeling of exhilaration John experienced in danger made all the other moments in his life feel dull.

     John could feel his blood pumping, his heart racing. His breath came rapidly, each intake fuller and richer with life than that of his dearest friend now. Normally, at this rush, John would be delighted to feel alive, but right now he felt the very opposite.

     A feeling of dread and overwhelming panic consumed him as he tried to help, to not fumble over his words, to make his medical background of use. Blood continued to bloom, staining Sherlock’s once wonderfully white shirt, and John cursed himself. He was a bloody doctor! He had treated many wounds before, so why, in all heavens, must his hands and knowledge fail him now?

     Blood had been spilled on golden sand, and he had helped. John had healed on a _battlefield_ , while being shot at himself. This situation was certainly less stressful.

     But it was not. John found himself paralyzed as he muttered helpless pleas to Sherlock. They were meant to be encouraging, to keep Sherlock with him, but even to him his words felt flat.

     He could see it in the other man’s barely open eyes. They were listless and abandoned. They lacked the withering derision usually directed at others and the excited brightness they gained during deductions. A distant expression he had seen so often on Sherlock as he lay absorbed in his mind palace was present now. But instead of the concentrated search in his eyes, here was instead a spiral as if with each second he descended closer to the cold valley of death.

     John remembered that look, when it reached its final destination, the one that was vacant and devoid of life, smattered with blood. The one seen lifeless on the concrete that day and in his nightmares before Sherlock’s return. He remembered how utterly helpless he was, and how much he was now. Sherlock convulsed slightly in his arms, and John could only hold him tighter. He called to him, trying desperately to bring life back into those eyes, but his words seemed to garner no progress.

     When the paramedics arrived, John could not bear to see his friend leave his side. Forcing his way into the ambulance, he refused to move an inch away from Sherlock, even if he managed to get into the paramedics’ way several times. He clutched his limp hand desperately for fear that if he let go, Sherlock would as well. And when the man needed to be taken into surgery, John was consumed by worry and fear. His mind ran in a loop of what ifs: what if he had gone upstairs earlier, what if Janine had not believed Sherlock’s fake proposal, what if, what if?

     John’s body succumbed to exhaustion before his mind did. As he sat in the waiting room, John drifted off, but his sleep was no better than reality. His dreams were plagued with dark curls, lifeless eyes, and so much blood. John could not remember much once he awoke. Sleep deprivation and emotional turmoil worked against him. Most of his memories were a fog, at least until he heard that deep, but shaky baritone mumble just barely at a perceivable volume, “Mary.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and comments are greatly appreciated!


	4. The Reveal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's thoughts of Mary's past, some time after he found out, and how he deals with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I do not own Sherlock(BBC).

     The cool night air was not calming as John had wished. He did not know why he had expected it to be so; he had been through this routine many nights before.

     He was always on edge, and had been since the reveal of Mary’s past. He tried to ignore the betrayal he felt, and the anger that stirred with it. For the most part, he succeeded. They remained living together, though highly avoidant of each other. It was at night though, that he could not ignore his mixed emotions.

     The thought of getting into bed with his wife, a woman who remained as much a mystery to him as the day they met, would not sit well with him. Whenever John would see her, lying peacefully in slumber, he could not help but feel disgust at the woman. He took walks then, in the middle of the London nightlife to get away from that den of tension and wrongness.

     He remembered the night Sherlock had called him, when they had set up a clever ruse to trick Mary. In the end, they had sided against him, blaming it on who John was. As if it was his fault he was married to a lying assassin!

     John’s anger had been unwavering that night. Sherlock had been the same as always: objective, overly analytical, and a stick in the arse. Mary, on the other hand, was no longer his loving partner, who he had so carefully chosen, but a stranger.

     When they had returned to the flat, she had retreated to the corner, holding herself in a reserved, defensive manner. Normally so carefree and kind, she adopted a hard shell. A normal person would have acted out of anger or broken into sadness. Instead, a cold woman remained, with such a lack of anything Mary that John wondered how the persona could even be real.

     She had said John would not love her after he looked at that small, seemingly insignificant memory stick labeled with the initials A.G.R.A. He could not help but wonder what had been on it, but he never had the resolve to view its contents. John never had a terribly good imagination - he was a more practical, down-to-earth sort of guy, though Sherlock would say dull – but his thoughts ran wild with the scenario.

     He had been around criminals. Thanks to Sherlock, dealing with them was practically his job. And when he was in the war, he had faced a nameless sort of evil, like that of robots ordered to kill. He had seen his fair share of bad apples.

     He remembered pool water, serving as a rippling source of light under the night sky. He could not forget the heavy weight of nitrogen-packed explosives weighing down his already bulky jacket. Bright red dots that threatened to kill the life he had gained since he lost it in Afghanistan – for there is a difference between existing and truly living – and that terrible, sweet voice in his ear.

     He remembered it all vividly; he was even disturbed by the memories when he tried to escape to the quiet confines of sleep. That face did not belong to just a man, but to a demon. One who chose to target his best friend and ruin his life. And John’s traitorous mind could picture it perfectly, the little red dots that could have ended his life any second that night, controlled by an unseen person in the shadows and working for that demon, one that possessed the face of the person he said “I do” to.

     He thought of her kind expression, hardened with self-preservation as she received commands from that demon. He thought of her setting up a rifle, just waiting to see the signal that was the world’s only consulting detective falling from a building. And why would it be so far-fetched, that the woman who currently slept peacefully back home had worked for the demon? John knew Sherlock would call him a mawkish idiot for such a concept. “Illogical,” he would say.

     The pompous detective himself even seemed to be against him. When he thought he could trust his best friend, Sherlock sided with his lying wife. He had said John was “addicted to a certain lifestyle.” He even used himself as an example, bringing up his drug addiction and unnatural fascination with murders. It was not the same thing. Sherlock was a git, but nevertheless a brilliant, exciting one. John had found purpose for his life upon meeting him.

     But Mary had too. John tried blocking out this thought, but he could not deny she had saved him. If not for Mary, John might have followed Sherlock’s steps. The recent deaths section of the newspaper would have held a small paragraph, dwarfed by the size of some beauty ad, that stated, “popular crime blogger commits suicide.”

     Mary had been new at this point of his life. She had been an angel. A being that provided the excitement that he craved, and the sweetness he saw in a wife, all wrapped in a wonderful package that John could not help but fall for.

     John had chosen her. In a way, he had chosen Sherlock too; he had not needed to comply with the man’s proposition for a roommate. John had made the choice, though, and he never expected they would become such good friends. He supposed the same could be true for Mary. She had only ever been good to him, as if her past did not exist. John had also seen that past does not define a person when he came to know Sherlock.

     Perhaps he could do the same with Mary: overlook her past until actions painted true character. After all, Mary was nothing like what she claimed her past self was. John had no right to be judgmental, when she had so obviously changed.

     John sighed, experiencing a mix of fresh perspective and hesitation. He thought back to Mary, asleep in their bed. Unwillingly, he smiled at the thought of her. Though he wished not to, his heart burned painfully in a confused mix of anger and love. Some say that the two are the same thing. Perhaps that would be true, John thought, as he twisted through the London streets with a destination for home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this chapter is to your liking! I manged to get it done in almost exactly a week for once. 
> 
> Kudos and comments are greatly appreciated!


	5. The Departure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final haunt in John's life: Sherlock leaving to Eastern  
> Europe as punishment for killing Magnussen, and John's thoughts as he says his final goodbye to Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is the final chapter of my first multi-chapter fic! Thank you very much to all of you who have read all the way to the end!  
> Unfortunately, I don't think I did this scene justice. Oh well.  
> As always, I do not own Sherlock(BBC).

     John found it hard to maintain his composure when his best friend had to leave his life forever. A meeting was arranged between them, thanks to Mycroft, and they at least got this moment. Despite Sherlock’s complacency about it, and his brother’s secrecy, John knew what was going to happen to his best friend.  
 

     “Who knows?” Sherlock said when asked what would happen after he had fulfilled his six months of undercover work in Eastern Europe. His statement was innocuous, and coming from anyone else it would have rang with optimism and promised tales of adventure. But his voice lacked its carefully controlled tone and the delicate skin around his eyes pinched as if strained. John saw through his mask. He could not blame him; even his own face was a carefully guarded construct that attempted to belay no inkling of feelings.  
 

     The irony of the situation was unmistakable for John. Once again, a demon had surfaced in their lives and created its own brand of chaos. Perhaps it was the same malevolent being that caused the dreaded Fall, but had cast its enchantments and gained a new face to torment them with. Once again, Sherlock was to be ripped from his life. 

     John found himself conflicted. Like the two sides of the moon, his mind was divided against each other into one that was comprised of bright, shining optimism, and one that was consumed by a dark void. He wished to take this hardship in stride, to move on with his life, but John was never very good at optimism, and he felt himself consumed by the once forgotten fear of he’s gone. His only condolence came from Mary, his new beacon of hope.  
 

     John felt tense, like the strings on Sherlock’s violin. He tried to feel positive, but when he looked into the future, the world grew a darker shade of grey. Just as Sherlock painted sensations and played feelings upon his violin, so too did he draw out the artistry within John. He brought a melody to his life, one of danger and excitement, with highs and lows, and dips and curves that painted a wonderful friendship. They resonated in each other’s presence, playing off each other like talented musicians, harmonizing, to bring out the best in each other.  
 

     He could see that Sherlock felt the same pressure. A hesitation hung in the air, as if one sound would crack the world in two. For John it would; goodbye meant the detective was gone forever. Silently, he wished this meeting could be recorded, so that it may forever be imprinted as evidence of what the man before him meant to him. John feared the mental limitations of his body, coupled with the chaos of life, would cause this man, who had saved his life countless times, to dissipate from his memory.  
 

     Sherlock took the risk of the impending earthquake, “John, there’s something…I should say;” his air of constant superiority vanished and the atmosphere thickened, “I-I’ve meant to say always and then never have.” He swallowed, and John could see he regained some of his composure when their gazes met again, “Since it is unlikely we’ll ever meet again, I might as well say it now.”  
 

      His eyes looked away again, and John was frozen by the feeling that what he had to say was of the utmost importance. After his hesitation, Sherlock was once again strong and collected. He said without a hitch, “Sherlock is actually a girl’s name.” His lips quirked upward in a not-so-serious manner.

      John could not contain himself. The absurdity of the statement confounded him. With no other proper response in mind, he giggled, and the crushing atmosphere dissipated slightly around them. John did not feel like he was suffocating quite so much. “It’s not,” he said.  
 

     Sherlock’s smile, however small and tainted with sadness, was the sun right before its death, “It was worth a try.”

     “We’re not naming our daughter after you,” John insisted.

     “I think it could work,” Sherlock said; his voice fell flat and his eyes mirrored it. Small wrinkles crinkled around his eyes, and John was awed by them. They spoke volumes, each twinkle writing memories and each color saying “Thank you, John.” He saw an apology, a happiness, and a sadness all contained within those deep pools. John wished his throat would not close up when he felt his emotions rise to the surface in response.  
 

     Sherlock extended a hand, “To the very best of times, John.”  
 

     And there was the war within himself. The hand was offered plainly, as if it was the conclusion to a business meeting. Sherlock had always said he was married to his work, but he knew their relationship had transcended much more than business partners. John did not give the title of best friend to someone who was not worthy of it. And so, he could not bring himself to bridge that gap. He would gladly jump in front of a loaded gun for Sherlock, but this seemed so different. He did not want to let go. 

     It took a long while before John found the nerve to shake Sherlock’s hand. It lasted only a second, and then he was gone, the consulting detective flying off to his own fate.

      John felt numb, as if Sherlock had taken a part of him on that plane with him. Mary’s hand slipped into his, breaking him out of his reverie. She did not say anything, but she seemed permanent and lasting in that moment: the constant in his life. Seeing her, a small part of him accepted this change.  
 

     They stood there silently, as John processed everything. It did not occur to them something unbelievable was happening across all of London until Mycroft stepped out of the car. His face, though mostly bored in expression, held an ounce of alarm. It was not until they saw the little tv in the car’s dash with the demon’s face plastered across it that they understood what was going on.  
 

     Mary was incredulous. She bombarded John with questions, who accepted the fact with swiftness. It only seemed natural that if the world’s only consulting detective could fake his death, then the only consulting criminal could as well.  
 

     The demon was back, in his original persona as Moriarty. John felt he should be frightened by this, after all no other man had ruined his life quite so much. But when Sherlock’s small plane reappeared on the horizon, John felt a sort of rightness. The puzzle pieces of his life seemed to fall into place, and he felt excitement. 

      “There’s an east wind coming,” he said, in a business-like tone. The game was on. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading this fic, and especially all the way to the end! Kudos and comments are greatly appreciated!

**Author's Note:**

> So, this started off as a drabble and is turning into a multi-chapter fic now. Whoops.  
> Hopefully, I can post a new chapter to this story weekly. However, each chapter will be relatively short: around 500 words. 
> 
> As always kudos and comments are greatly appreciated!


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